White Sheets of Paper
by element90
Summary: A homework assignment...


This oneshot I've had taking up space on my computer since like... January. I'm doing this fanfiction thing again because I said I'd get back to it eventually (six months later), I missed it, and I'm not allowed to leave the house for quite some time so I need something to do...

White Sheets of Paper

"You've been staring at that thing for like...twenty minutes. Would that look on your face by any chance be intense creative concentration?"

She slowly glances up at him as he stands at the foot of her bed. "Twenty?" she asks nonchalantly. "Is that all?"

Perching on the edge of the mattress, he inquires with great interest, "What've you got so far?"

Pulling her knees to her chest in a needless attempt to hide the lack of written words from him, she shrugs. "I got..." He waits patiently and curiously, and she caves. "I got a blank white page," she says with a frustrated sigh, holding the paper up as proof.

"It's a fine place to start," he offers encouragingly, but she's not convinced.

"I'm just not any good at writing stuff," she replies, leaning her head back against her pillows.

"You write up news reports all the time."

_That's true_, her mind echoes before accusing her of making excuses for not having put her pen to the paper yet. "Well, I'm not Japanese," she says, giving him and herself the lamest of excuses flying around inside her head.

"Keel..." he begins gently, trying to keep from laughing at her, "You don't have to be Japanese to write a haiku."

With a loud sigh, she rips the page from her notebook, crumples it into a tight wad, and chucks it at her wastebasket, missing by a few feet.

Stifling his amusement, Phil responds, "You just threw away a blank sheet of paper."

"Your point?" she asks in irritation, thinking of the ridiculous assignment.

"Think of the trees, Keel," he playfully pleads. She narrows her eyes at him, and the humor immediately disappears. "All you need is some inspiration," he offers tenderly, hoping his new tactic will be better received.

She almost laughs out loud, but quickly catches the giggle bubbling up inside. _Inspiration_. Gazing at the boy sitting on her bed mere inches from her, his hand resting upon her blanket close to her bare foot...

With a glance at the slightly chipped polish on her toes, she casually shifts her position to put some distance between him and the unattractive glitter partially painted on her nails.

Lifting her eyes back to Phil, she finds he is distracted by the frayed ends of his shoelace. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Keely studies his face, the faint lines in his forehead as he seems to seriously contemplate the worn state of his laces, his lips, the line of his jaw, the movement along his throat as he swallows, the way his dark t-shirt clings to his frame, the flex of muscle in his arm...

_If that's not inspiration, what is then?_ She asks herself that as a heated blush ignites her skin.

Phil flicks his shoelace aside and turns his attention on her. Quickly, she looks down, praying that he didn't see the color in her cheeks and the dazed stare.

Tapping the point of her pen to the white sheet of paper, she bites on her lip as she tries to focus on the task at hand and not the heightened awareness of her senses overwhelmed by the proximity of the boy sitting on her bed. _A few weeks ago, this assignment would've been a snap_, she thinks. But that was before the way she looked at her best friend started to become more than friendly.

Sneaking another brief glance in his direction, she breathes a short sigh of relief to see that he has moved his gaze to some random spot in her room.

_Inspiration indeed._

"But I can't write about that," she mumbles, unintentionally speaking her thoughts.

"What?" he inquires, turning his head at the sound of her voice.

"I didn't say anything," she answers suddenly. Phil regards her suspiciously, but he lets it slide. "So..." she begins, nervously clearing her throat, "What're _you_ gonna write about?"

Phil recalls the poem he so easily and naturally jotted down almost as soon as the assignment was given. "I've already finished mine, actually."

"We just got the assignment today." He grins, and Keely narrows her eyes. "I really don't like you sometimes." He laughs, but doesn't utter a single word so she prods, "Well...can I hear it?"

"Nope."

"Meanie."

"Ouch," he replies, holding his hand over his heart.

As the warm flush rises up her neck again at his adorableness, she looks down at the page and slowly begins to write, but within a few seconds, she glances back up at him.

"I can't do this with you watching me," she informs. _Like_ _that_, she adds silently.

Phil shakes himself from his reverie and rises to his feet. "Yeah...sorry." Grabbing up his backpack on his way to the door, he says over his shoulder, "Good luck, Keel."

"Thanks," she replies with a half-smile, desperately needing all the luck she can get. "Okay..." she sighs once he's gone.

A haiku. A poem typically consisting of three lines of seventeen syllables. Usually a quick mention of a scene witnessed, an emotion invoked, or a thought pondered, usually nature-derived, but for the purposes of this particular assignment, it must be subjective and slightly less typical.

"That's easy," she says, sitting up straight, ready to get down to business. "Right?" she asks the empty room as her confidence level plummets. She shakes her head and places her pen to the paper again. "Really," she scoffs, "how hard can a three line poem be to write anyway?"

_When you want it to be about him_, her mind answers her, _it's very--_

"Hush," she mutters.

The next day comes sooner than either Keely or Phil would have liked, and with the time for their assignments to be handed in fast approaching, the minutes are ticking by with lightning speed.

"What's up, dude?"

"Hey, Owen," he replies, without taking his eyes off the paper in his lap.

"Whatcha doin'?" he inquires, giving the notebook a peek.

Phil blows out a puff of air as he scratches his head. "Uh...I'm trying to write my haiku." He adds to himself, _rewrite my haiku, actually, since I woke up completely terrified of the other one. If anyone was to ever read it..._

Owen's fingers upon the plastic wrapping momentarily stop. "That's due today?"

"Yeah," Phil replies disinterestedly.

With a laugh, Owen holds up his hand to his face. "So that's why I tied this string around my finger." Phil pauses his writing and slowly turns to his friend who is now examining the package in his hand with wide eyes. "Dude...this just gave me an _awesome_ idea."

"You found your muse in a yellow cream-filled snack cake," Phil notes dryly, unsurprised by the source of his friend's inspiration.

Quickly rising off the bench, Owen snaps his fingers, jams the treat into his mouth, and mumbles a few indiscernible words before jogging down the hall.

Phil shakes his head and puts the finishing touches on his new poem as another friend steps in front of him. "What are you working on?"

"My haiku!" he nearly shouts at her as he irritatedly throws his hands up into the air. "_Okay_? I'm working on my haiku!"

Via nods, unaffected by his outburst. "All right. I'll see you later then."

Watching her leave, Phil sighs, sticks the notebook into his bag, and heads to next period as the bell rings.

The class is moderately noisy, but neither of them notice; instead, they stare at their desktops, the piece of paper on each smooth surface cruelly mocking them. And when the teacher notes that the order of their presentations will be based upon their seating arrangements, they both almost fall to the floor.

As the class looks on, some in wide-eyed confusion and others in frightened shock, Keely stutters out her question. "Uh...we have t-to read them?"

The teacher affirms her answer with a nod of her head, and the students react appropriately.

Wondering if perhaps she could make up another haiku on the spur of the moment, Keely unsteadily approaches the front of the classroom. As the teacher plucks the white sheet of paper from her shaky hands, she realizes with a nauseating blow to her stomach that the notion isn't an option.

"Yes," the teacher says to the class upon hearing their gasps, "I expected you all to memorize your poems as well." Immediately, all heads lower as eyes frantically scan papers.

_Well_, Keely thinks, _at least they won't be looking at me_.

"Begin whenever you are ready."

With a deep breath and a brief glance at him, she picks a indiscriminate point on the back wall and opens her mouth. "From pages...of time," she utters, her voice faltering in pitch.

"Speak up, Keely," the teacher instructs.

"From pages of time... into this life he journeyed..."

At the mention of the word 'he' every head snaps back up and every pair of eyes lock onto her. And likewise, the feeling of every humiliating moment she has ever experienced comes crashing down upon her.

The room is incredibly quiet as all ears eagerly await her to continue. The teacher motions for her to wrap it up, but Keely is fixed upon the back wall, too afraid to look at the sea of faces all hinging on the utterance of her next words.

In one rapid breath, she finishes, "To capture my heart," and hastily she makes her way to her desk, plopping down into it after daring a glance at the boy sitting behind her who is looking rather ill at the moment, though not for the reasons Keely suspects.

Demanding the hush of the rising murmurs, whispers, and assuming snickers, the teacher briefly commends Keely for her efforts and points to Phil, indicating his turn has come.

Looking quite pale and feeling quite sick, he carefully moves to the front of the room.

"I bet she's talking about," a girl in the front row whispers to her friend, "_him_," she adds, raising her eyebrow at Phil.

He softly clears his throat, and tries to ignore the awkwardness of the situation. He briefly looks to Keely, but she's busy fidgeting with her fingers. With no other choice but to read the words he'd quickly memorized from the white sheet of paper, he passes it to the teacher.

"Ripe on the green vine..." he mumbles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Speak up," the teacher insists, and the majority of his classmates chuckle at the familiarity of the scene.

"Pick from leafy tree so high, fruit of summer sun," he finishes in a flat voice and promptly takes his seat.

The two girls in the first row cast glances his way before turning to whisper words he can't hear from his current distance. Staring at the cascade of blond hair in front of him, he sighs and slumps down into his seat, hoping to hide himself.

"A very traditional piece, Mr. Diffy, and structurally sound; however, not at all personal, as I requested."

_Yeah, rub some more salt into the wound_, he thinks as he buries his face in his hands, peeking through his fingers at the clock up ahead, wishing for the hour to be over.

Owen taps Phil's shoulder with his pencil and whispers, "Dude...what's up?"

But Phil just sinks further down into his desk as the teacher calls Owen to the front of the room. Shaking off his confusion, Owen practically skips into position, a fresh package of the yellow cream-filled snack cake in hand ready to be used as an unnecessary visual aid. Luckily for Phil and Keely, their unusual friend manages to capture the attention of the class with a rather entertaining and theatrical recital, and ultimately, a untidy dramatic finale in which the spongy treat is shoved into his mouth.

Once the minute hand finally hits the mark, they both hurriedly make their exit; Keely in a rush to escape to the safety of a restroom stall and Phil in a race to catch up with her before that can happen.

"Keel," he calls after her, but she doesn't acknowledge his presence on her heels. "Keely," he repeats more firmly.

Coming to a halt and keeping her back to him, she shakes her head, and utters a curt, "Can't talk right now, Phil."

"But I--" The swinging of the restroom door effectively cuts him off.

A few students from the class walk by chatting in quiet voices along with a few students who weren't in the class, but news travels quickly through any high school. After a few long, agonizingly tortuous minutes with his back against the wall and his posture slouched in defeat, a welcomed face appears in view.

"Via!" he exclaims with renewed hope.

"Why are you loitering outside the girls restroom?"

"Keely's in there, and she won't come out," he breathes exasperatedly. Via nods with a mysterious smile, and Phil rolls his eyes. "You know, don't you?"

Tenderly patting his shoulder, she replies, "I've known for a long time."

He sighs and gestures at the door. "Can you please go in there and," he adds, pointing to the floor beneath their feet, "bring her out _here_?"

"The lunch hour will not last forever, Phil," she replies with a shrug. "She'll have to come out eventually."

"But I need to talk to her _now_," he begs.

"And I need to be going _now_," she counters with a smile.

"Via," he pathetically whines, nearly causing her to laugh at the uncanny resemblance to the blonde currently in hiding.

"This is between the two of you. I'm not getting involved."

As she turns to walk away, an idea pops into Phil's head, and he quickly surveys his surroundings. Upon seeing that the coast is clear, he produces a handy gadget.

"Oh yeah?" he says under his breath while his eyes gleam as he manages to scan the brunette girl without her knowledge before she disappears around the corner. With another look around and satisfied to find himself alone in the hallway, he morphs and pushes through the door.

A muffled sniffle can be heard coming from one of the stalls.

"Keely?" he asks, a bit shocked by the feminine British tone to his voice.

"How did you know I was in here?" she mumbles.

"Uhh...I...someone told me." He waits for her to respond, but when it doesn't come, he asks, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Via," she sighs.

Phil steps closer to the door, a tad uncomfortable to be in this position. "Do you...wanna talk?"

"How'd you find out?" she huffs.

"I was there," he replies, rolling his eyes.

"No, you weren't."

Realizing his slip, he corrects himself, "I meant that uh...I was there... _in the hallway_...when...the uh..."

"People were gossiping about it?" Keely angrily supplies as she jerks open the door and nearly collides with him.

He chuckles nervously as he steps back, but then notices the red of her eyes. "I'm sorry, Keel."

She furrows her brow. "What did you say?"

"I'm sorry?" he offers, aware of the second mistake he just made.

Luckily, Keely waves him off and walks to the sink where she stares at herself in the mirror with disgust evident in her features. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"Yes, I am. I'm stupid 'cause I feel that way about my best friend," she admits and a wide grin appears on his face, which Keely only momentarily questions before continuing with her rant. "I'm _really_ stupid for putting my feelings into a poem that had even the slightest chance of having to be read to the entire class, and I'm _really really _stupid for getting so upset about it."

"You're embarrassed. It's okay," he says gently, coming to stand next to her, doing a double take at the reflection and then stepping to the side to keep the mirror from catching the image.

"It's not okay, Via! Everyone was laughing!"

"Relax. I'm sure not everyone even thinks it's about me."

"What?" she asks after a brief pause.

"Uh...I-I meant...you know...Phil. I meant Phil."

"Phil?" Keely asks crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah. Phil," he replies with an uneasy smile.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "_Phil_?"

He slowly repeats in confusion, "Yessss... Phil."

"_Phil_?" she stresses in a loud voice, jabbing a finger at his chest. "_You're_ Phil?"

"Oh...that's what you meant." Gingerly, he fishes the Insta-Morph from his bag and, with a sigh, zaps himself. Keely stares at him for a few seconds with an unreadable expression. He smiles weakly. "Pretty funny, huh?"

Opening her mouth to spit a venomous retort, but deciding against it in favor of roughly shoving him out of her way, she storms out the door.

Wincing slightly from the abrupt impact of his shoulder to the wall, Phil mutters, "Okay...I guess not," before hurrying through the door to follow her. "Keely!" She stops a few feet up the hall. "I'm really sorry."

Spinning around to face him, she scoffs, "For what exactly? The fact that I'm now the laughingstock of the school or the fact that you're too scared to confront me as yourself? Which was really low, by the way."

"Both?" he timidly replies.

"Whatever," she mutters as she turns away from him.

"No, Keely, wait a minute," he pleads, spanning the short distance between them in a quick jog. "I'm sorry for..." he says in a quiet voice, which she responds to by meeting his eyes again.

"What?" she asks impatiently.

He remembers something, and unzips his backpack, flips through his notebook until he finds it. "I'm sorry for being too scared to do this," he says, handing her a white sheet of paper.

Tentatively, she takes it from him and rests her gaze upon it. But she frowns, much to Phil's worry. "Is this a joke?" she questions, holding up the paper.

Phil shakes his head. "No it's--" But then he realizes the page is blank. "Hold on," he says, quickly searching for the correct sheet.

After exchanging papers with him, Keely takes a minute to absorb the written words while Phil anxiously awaits any kind of reaction. When a couple more minutes pass and the expression on her face hasn't yet spoken of the emotions within, Phil stuffs his hands into his pockets and lowers his head.

"That's what I was scared of," he whispers, almost sadly, thinking that perhaps he has made another mistake.

"Phil," she says as he moves to leave. Her eyes roam over the words scribbled onto the white page, his love confessed in those three simple lines.

_'Hands of Fate on me_

_guiding me to your warm light_

_where my soul dances.'_

Slowly, she meets his gaze with glistening eyes.

Slowly, he steps toward her.

"Told ya," whispers the girl from the front row to her friend as they pass by snickering.

With a sigh, Phil offers his hand. "Cafeteria?"

With a wide grin, Keely accepts his invitation.


End file.
